


fuck you V: a good day to die hard

by Fuckboy Phoebus (The_Resurrection_3D), michael__distortion



Category: Eddsworld - All Media Types
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Foursome - M/M/M/M, Furbies, Gun Violence, M/M, Multi, Murder, Temporary Character Death, Torture, Trans Male Character, how the FUcK do i tag this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-10-11
Packaged: 2020-06-25 12:57:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19746205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Resurrection_3D/pseuds/Fuckboy%20Phoebus, https://archiveofourown.org/users/michael__distortion/pseuds/michael__distortion
Summary: this is the worst thing on this website





	1. gay lactation sex titty rabbit

Tord shifted slightly, keeping Paul's legs firmly spread while he squirmed and whimpered. Patryck was between his thighs, working two fingers inside of him and murmuring soft praise up at him, kissing his thighs. He curled his fingers, and Paul arched his back, a desperate moan slipping past his lips. Tord did his best to keep him still, pressing kisses to his neck and sliding his hands up his hoodie to feel him squirm beneath his palms.

Shooting a sly glance to Will, who was bound and on the floor, kneeling on a pillow as he watched with flushed cheeks, Patryck snickered.  
"Are you doing alright, Willy?" He purred, and Will nodded, narrowing his eyes. Paul wasn't all too sure what he'd done to get himself into this situation, but he didn't really want to think at the moment. All he wanted to do was open his legs further, gasping as Patryck began to work his magic, eventually lowering his head to take the head of his cock in his mouth.

Paul went to tangle his hands in Pat’s hair, only to find Tord still holding them back.  
“No, come on, keep your hands behind your back.” He reprimanded, snaking one hand around to push Patryck away, now that Paul was growing close. Pat moved to sit back, raising his eyebrows. He panted, melting against the alpha behind him and closing his eyes, and Will whined. 

He was feeling rather left out, but nobody paid him any mind, so when Pat stood up to pick something up, he perked up, whimpering and pleading with his eyes, and of course he was, again, ignored. Pat padded over to the wardrobe, and Tord moved to put his hand around Paul's cock, trying to keep him distracted while he got ready. The omega arched his back, whimpering and bucking his hips up into his hand. 

Eventually, he began to get frustrated, the ache in his stomach not enough to be satisfied with just that, and tried to twist away from Tord’s hand, whining. Patryck came back over from the closet,getting back up onto the bed and grinning down at him, moving to part his legs. He let them fall open, watching as he positioned the tip of the strapon and gently pushed inside a little. Paul whined, closing his eyes and lifting his hips up, while Will desperately tried to get himself off unnoticed on the pillow.

Patryck moved to grip hold of his thighs, purring and pushing in further, digging his nails into his flesh. He tilted his head back as their hips met, wrapping his legs around Pat's waist and mewling. Tord kissed his neck gently, running his hands down his side and chuckling as he whimpered. The two alphas kept quite a strong grip on him as he squirmed, letting noises spill out uncontrolled.

Tord wrapped a hand around his cock again, gently moving it up and down as Patryck sped up the motions of his hips, leaning down to kiss him on the lips. His hands were finally released, and he threw them around Patryck's neck, holding him close as he would up to release. He was panting softly by the time the two alphas began to actually make an effort to get him off properly, and he began to cry as Patryck angled his hips just so, making each thrust go into his prostate.

Will wriggled in his restrains, whining as he felt the ache growing stronger the longer he was ignored. He knew he'd be let out soon enough, but he was so wound up he was ready to scream. His annoyance was only heightened when Tord looked over at him, smug grin on his face. The omega narrowed his eyes, growling softly and tryimg to grind against the pillow, not quite managing.

Tord turned his attention back to Paul, kissing wetly at his ear and moving his hands up to pinch his nipples, all the while murmuring promises of things to come to him. Paul squirmed as Patryck gave another sharp, rather precise thrust, coming with a shout of his name. 

He slowed down, catching his breath quickly and pulling out. Paul shifted slightly, fairly spaced out by now, and Tord moved back to get up, letting him lie down. He moved off the bed, walking over to Will, who glared up at him with narrowed eyes. He crouched down to untie him, helping him up when he had. Will got up on unsteady feet, and sighed.  
"Yknow, you'd think I'd be used to being cucked by now." He mused, padding over to the bed and getting up, omega instincts kicking in as he began to arrange the blankets around Paul and Pat. Patryck grinned up at him playfully.  
"Enjoy yourself?" 

Will smacked him with a pillow.


	2. winnie the pooh bdsm [asmr roleplay]

“Ow.” Patryck rubbed his throbbing nose as Will curled up next to Paul, who was still trying to regulate his breath. “What is this thing made out of, bricks?”

Paul felt a smile pressed against his flushed skin. Purring, Will planted a kiss between Paul’s shoulder blades as Patryck held up the pillow in question. Paul half-expected Will to push him onto his stomach and start grooming him the way he’s so often want to do, but instead Will slung his body atop Paul’s, arm over his arm, leg over his legs. As though Will’s head doesn’t come up to the middle of Paul’s sternum only with the aid of platform heels.

Paul shrugged him off; “It’s too hot.” He reached instead for the nightstand, the box of cigarettes he found empty. “Tord, are there any of on your side?”

Will’s tiny fists balled against the bottom of his shoulder blades. Usually he’s only this clingy during his heats, when the influx of hormones made him adorably needy (to Tord and Patryck, anyway).

They’ve only ever made Paul throw up.

A drawer opened. Patryck shutting the drawer for him and taking up his reading glasses as Tord huffed, walked towards the hulk of gray plastic inherited from his parents, checking to make sure the ashtray and spare box haven’t fallen behind the TV again.

“Shit.” Tord banged his hand against the television before he stomped out of the room.

Will called after him, “I think Paul left your hentai on the stove again.”

Patryck snorted in reply. “I wish. You know he’s been reading nothing but beta cuck porn lately, right?”

To which Will laughed a bit too loudly. Will's nose finding the ticklish places along his back, Paul rolled over onto it, allowing Will to meld his body against his side, his head over Paul’s heart.

“Who do you think’s been buying it for him?” Paul asked Pat with a wolfish grin, to which Patryck slapped his arm. “I saw an article about cucks in that art mag you read and --”

“Absolutely not.”

“What?” Will lifted his head.

“We’re not going to go to an art installation for you two idiots to stand there giggling like five-year-olds over its name.”

“Oh, come on,” Paul chided. “At least we’d be the only people there enjoying ourselves.”

“I’ll go with you, Paul,” Will replied. 

Paul rubbed a hand over his back; “I would’ve asked you to go anyway.”

Far off in the kitchen, Tord slammed another cupboard door shut before appearing again in their bedroom doorway, pulling his arm into his favorite of Paul's bomber jackets. "Alright, apparently we're somehow out of cigs. I'm gonna run down to the shop real quick for some more and a few bottles of coke. You guys want anything?"

Only Will asked for one of his favorite candy bars. 

"I could've sworn I got some more a few days ago," Paul muttered to himself as he hears the door close. Lights in the bushes outside their window flashing up and then dragging away. 

“You’re very forgetful,” Patryck retorted simply, stretching out in the bed with a loud groan. “Can you hand me the remote?”

“I’ll do it!” Will chirped, leaning over Paul’s body to grab it off the nightstand -- whispering a quick _stay put_ into his ear before tossing the remote to Patryck.

“What do you mean?” Paul whispered back as Will snuggled him close again, nuzzling his face into the crook of Paul’s neck. Patryck, apparently not hearing, idly fluffed his mountain of pillows and settled down, clicking on the TV.

Paul knew that sound too well; a bullet going through glass.

Will tried to pin Paul down with his own weight as the screen exploded, but it wasn't enough, for Paul easily threw him off as he ---

“Don’t scream!” Will’s voice like he's underwater.

Patryck’s eye a fountain of blood.

High-pitched electronic chirping: a black Furby parked in the wire and tube guts of the old television, a gun wrapped in the coils of its elongated body like a boa constrictor.

“What the FUCK!”

“Paul, calm--”

“Patryck, can you hear me?” Paul slammed two fingers against the side of Patryck’s neck already wet with the river of blood, feels nothing, feels cold and hollow and empty. “Patryck, come on--”

“Paul. Listen to me,” Will said sternly, a hand on Paul’s shoulder.

“Patryck’s fucking dead!” Paul yanked himself out of his grasp; “Why aren’t you doing anything?”

"Paul, you have to calm down," Will slipped too into Dutch too as he grabbed onto Paul’s other shoulder, giving him the same look Paul himself always gave whenever he tried to guide Will down from a panic attack. “Breathe. In and out.”

Paul slapped him. Paul sent the signal to slap him down his arm again, but again nothing happened. All he could do, raise his hands to grasp at Will’s wrists. Will's pulse hadn't changed at all.

“I’m doing this for _us,”_ Will said, voice nearly quivering with excitement, yellow eyes boring into Paul’s mud brown. “You know, like you said yesterday -- Cucks rise up!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bruh my style sucks so badly in past tense, kill me now.


	3. i don't know man

Will grins at him, and Paul doesn’t doubt for a moment that he’s serious. He glances to Patryck, who’s gone cold by this point, and then ever so gently tries to pull his shoulders out of the other omegas grip.  
"You're not joking." He narrowed his eyes at him, shoving him off of him with shaky hands and standing up. "You're not joking, are you?"

He shakes his head, picking his way over broken pieces of television to take the gun from the furby, cocking it. "We're going to start an uprising, Paul." He grinned at him, something wild in his eyes. "Just the two of us."  
"You're a maniac." He snapped, falling back into English again and glancing to Patryck, then at the door.   
"Maybe so!" Will tugged the furby out, coiling it around his neck. It chirped something unintelligible, and Paul narrowed his eyes. "But I'm a maniac with a gun so I suggest you listen to me."

Paul eyed the door, considering his options, while Will padded back over to him, shoving him down onto the bed and straddling his hips, pressing the gun against his chest.  
"So, I'm sure you have questions?" He purred, looking up at him. He was tempted to shove him off, but the cold metal against his chest had him hesitating.   
"Why did you kill Patryck?" He narrowed his eyes, gripping his shoulders in case he had to throw him. "Patryck is dead and it's your fault why did you kill Patryck."

Will narrowed his eyes, trying to figure out if he was serious.  
"I wasn't the one who shot Patryck." He snickered, and Paul just furrowed his eyebrows. "Twas Jaundice."

It took him a moment to realise the furby's name was jaundice, but when he did he just scoffed.  
"And who set that up?" He narrowed his eyes at him, unsure if he was taking the piss at this point. "It was you. You killed Patryck."

He shoved him off, and he tumbled to the floor, giving a loud yelp. He shot into the ceiling in his surprise, and Paul watched a little bit of plaster fall down.  
"Tord's gonna kill you for that." He remarked, glancing behind him to Patryck's body, and sighing, almost expecting the reply when Will pulled himself up onto his feet, clambering back up onto the bed again.  
"Not if I kill him first!" He grinned, and Paul narrowed his eyes, getting up.  
"I'm gonna go for a walk." He snapped, and Will raised his eyebrows, shoving the gun into his belt. "You're staying here and explaining this mess to Tord when he gets back and then he can decide what to do with you."

Will furrowed his eyebrows, hesitating a little before he nodded, watching as he gave Patryck one last, rather long glance, before moving to pick up his clothes.   
"Could you throw me my hoodie?" Will asked, propping himself up on his elbows.  
"Get it yourself." Came the reply, as Paul collected his trousers from underneath a piece of broken television and put them on.

He sighed, getting up to go and get it, picking his way around shards of glass. Tugging it on, he yawned and stretched, before walking out of the room to grab a broom to deal with the pieces of broken television.

While he was in the kitchen, Will quickly scribbled Tord a note in an attempt at Patryck's handwriting. He did his best to give a decent enough excuse as to why the TV was broken, before going to find the broom. He heard Paul moving around in the bedroom, and he eventually emerged, walking to the front door and stepping out.

Now that he was alone, he swept up and then turned to Patryck's body, narrowing his eyes at the once alpha. He was sure that if Tord found him, he'd be hung drawn and quartered before he could even get an explanation out, so he had to hide it. He moved to pick him up, wanting to do this before rigor mortis set in and his body was contorted in some odd position. His body was still a little warm, and he found himself wondering what he'd taste like. It would do any harm if he didn't get blood everywhere, right?

Before he did anything stupid, he dragged him into the bathroom and pulled him into the bath, kneeling by the side of it. Will kept his eyes firmly away from his face as he did so, feeling just a little bit of regret. He arranged his limbs suitably, to make it look as though he was just having a good time in the bath, and got up. It was very tempting to just have a little taste of his flesh, but he made himself walk out of the room, shutting it firmly behind him and going back to the bed and looking over the bloodstained sheets. He moved a few pillows over the little spots, and resolved to lie over the worst of it and wait until Paul came back. He lay there for a moment, before his omegan instincts kicked in and he was hit with the urge to nest. He rolled over, getting up again and pulling the pillows down to where the bloodstains were, sitting on them and wrapping himself up, settling down. 

Paul shoved his hands in the pockets of his hoodie, mind running through everything that just happened. He wasn't sure if this was some form of awful fever dream or whether this was actually happening, but either way he didn't want to go back home without Tord. Eventually, he decided to just call him and see where about he was so they could meet up or something. Fishing his phone out of his pocket, he narrowed his eyes as he saw he had a couple of messages from Will, but ignored them in favour of calling the last alpha standing. He scrolled through his contacts until he found Tord, and called him. He furrowed his eyebrows as it started ringing, and held it up to his ear to wait.


	4. im not editing this shit lmao who fuckin cares no one but my sons are reading it anyways

Tord starts laughing. 

Paul slams the door shut, blinks dumbly when Tord hands him a napkin from the glovebox and tells him to wipe the blood off the door handle. 

“Now I know what you’re thinking, Paul,” Tord says as Paul wipes off his hands, finds a good bit already sunken dry into the ridges of his skin, wipes harder, rips the napkin. Tord has switched to Norweigian as he so often does when he and Paul are alone; all the quietness of his English persona slips away, and his voice grows confident, cocky even. “What the fuck are you laughing about? I’ll tell you -- I’m -- actually, do you want a cigar?”

He holds up a wrapped one to Paul from the cup holder, his own hanging from his teeth. Paul takes it, takes the lighter from the console between them. “As I was saying: first of all, I’m laughing because I think it’s fucking hilarious how Will thinks he’s the first omega who’s ever tried to start an uprising. Did he mention any army? Any plans? Even any stocked weapons?”

Paul shakes his head. The words _all he had was a gun_ die on his tongue. 

Well, a gun and a Furby, if such a thing could be counted.

“Secondly, do you remember when I painted that pentagram in the attic?” 

Paul nods. 

“Did you honestly believe it was just for decoration?”

Paul shrugs.

“It’s okay if you did,” Tord says with a smirk, mockery running underneath his voice. He gives Paul a playful slap on the shoulder. Paul shrugs again. “C’mon, did you?” 

Silence. 

Tord laughs. “It’s alright, Paul; some people are just meant to give brain rather than have it. Anyway, Patryck will take care of Will on his own.” 

Paul takes a drag on his cigar.

“Aren’t you gonna ask me what I mean by that?”

Paul slumps to the side, hand dangling out the window, cigar a spot of brightness in the dark like a firefly. Tord tries to rub Paul’s shoulder, but Paul jerks away.

The darkness unrolls like a blanket in front of them. Paul notices they’re not going back home, but he doesn’t ask. He can’t. 

“Like,” Tord continues, taking a deep drag on his cigar, “what’s he’s thinking? Are omegas even real--” ( his voice breaks with laughter) “-- are omegas even really sentient?” 

“I’m not,” Paul says simply. 

“Exactly!” Tord hits his shoulder, and Paul’s arm sinks into the side of his stomach. 

* * *

Patryck wakes up with a headache, so he goes and makes himself some tea. He sets the water to boil and fishes around the drawers for one of Tord’s pliers -- he can’t feel the bullet so deep into his brain matter, but it must be there, given he can’t feel an exit wound anywhere on his occiput. 

He can hear Will stomping around upstairs -- the attic is where he likes to hide, where he has his own huge nest of stolen sweaters and sweatpants and Furby skins. Let him think he’s alone. 

* * *

“Do you think he’s gonna stay mad at me, Jaundice?” Will asks the Furby still curled protectively around his neck. “He’s gonna come to his --” Will’s voice breaks in a sob as he stares at his phone, at the twenty ignored messages and ten calls that had gone straight to voicemail. “He’ll come to his senses, right?” The Furby made only some downtrodden noises, which Will knew was it trying to comfort him when it had no hope of its own. 

Crimson light. A heat underneath his legs. Will pulls one of Tord’s old sweaters up and sees the glowing arc of ink -- blood? -- underneath him, stretching out underneath the dusty boxes and broken standing mirrors and furniture and scrap metal. 

Uh oh. 

A knock on the attic door. 

“Paul…?” Will asks, wiping the snot off on his forearm. “Did you come back?”

Another, louder knock. 

“Paul?” Will calls as he crawls out of his nest towards the door. “I’m sorry for shooting at you earlier, I--” He gulps down another sob as he pulls up the --

Patryck smiles softly, his right dimples disappearing into the bandages around his eye. Something presses ag--

Will screams as pain explodes in his shoulder, right at the joint. He falls back, scrambling away from the door as his Furby screeches in alarm and Patryck lunges forward, grabbing Will by the ankle and unloading three nails into him, climbing up his leg like bug bites. The pentagram on the floor sparks as Will’s blood starts to soak into the ancient wood, from a dim glow to flashlight bright. 

“Come on dear, don’t make this harder than it has to be,” Patryck says, with the same slight annoyance he’d given whenever one of the others was taking too long to get dressed or had left their dishes to ferment in the sink. Will feebly tries to kick his ankle out of Patryck’s grip, groping one hand desperately at his nest for his gun, but it’s stuck into the floor. Bile in his throat. 

Patryck’s torso fills the attic as he grabs onto Will’s shirt, yanks him forward. Before Will can say anything, Patryck pulls him forward again, sending him toppling out of the attic -- except for his ankle, which twists painfully as his flesh spins around the nails, one of which comes up with the force. Jaundice falls off his shoulders, pools on the ground. Patryck pulls Paul’s small utility hammer out of his back jeans pocket, pries the nails out even as Will grabs onto his legs and begs. His grip on Patryck’s legs prevents him from falling onto his neck, but he stills lands on his ass, Patryck only taken down a few steps on the ladder. 

Patyrck kicks his hands away. 

Will starts blubbering as the pain races up his body like fire -- his shoulder, his ankle, his tailbone, eyes filling with hot tears. Jaundice too starts to cry, feeling the impact, and Will tries to quickly push himself off his Furby, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. 

“I’m sure you are,” Patryck says, tossing the bloodied bullet into his lap. 

* * *

“You know what would be really funny?” Tord asks as they pull up the McDonald’s drivethru. “If Patryck beating the shit out --” His voice breaks, and after a few moments of wheezing Tord tries again. “If as Pat’s beating the shit out of him Will goes into a fake heat. You only get those when you’re in mortal danger, right? Or is it just a myth?” 

Paul remains silent.

“Well, c’mon tell me -- I mean, I don’t expect you to have _experienced_ it, unless you count that --” The look on Paul’s face makes him stop. “Yeah. I’m gonna get you your usual if you don’t start talking soon.” 

Once they’ve ordered their food, Tord pulls up to the first empty window, awaiting the car before them to get their food. Paul still hasn’t said a word since decrying his own sentience. 

“I can just imagine Will running around trying to hide with --” Another laugh hidden behind his hand. “--with the fucking slick running down his leg. And Patryck’s just standing there and says, 

* * *

  
_Willy, you’re dripping pussy juice all over the afghan.”_ Patryck tosses the nail gun idly into his other hand. Will swears under his breath, one hand clasped over the doorknob and the other over Jaundice’s mouth. “I can see the trail going into the closet,” Patyrck continues, “so come on out.” 

“Shit,” Will mutters again. “Shit shit shit shit.” He holds his breath as footsteps approach the closet door, the fluids dripping down his leg and soaking through his thin boxers hideously warm and slimy. Sliding down over the holes in his weak ankle, which he’s drawn off the ground, balancing half on one leg and half against the door. It burns like a motherfucker.

Patryck nails him through the door. A perfect mirror for the nail in his shoulder. Will’s scream is choked as Patryck pulls the door open and peels Will off, throwing him down on the floor. 

“Go...” Will hacks up a thick ball of phlegm and bile and blood onto the floor, trying desperately to push himself up despite the screaming pain in both shoulders. “Go to hell.”

“Hell isn’t real,” Patryck says simply. His bare foot rests on the middle of Will’s back, pinning him to the floor. Will tries to say something else but Patryck applies more pressure, squeezing the air out of his lungs. A few feet away, the unfurled Jaundice chirps in fear. 

Patryck tosses the nail gun into his other hand. A small noise of thought. 

“What…” Will swallows, feeling like every atom of his body is one fire -- from the pain, from the fear, from the fake heat that doesn’t seem to be doing a lick of good. Patryck’s face isn't even flushed. 

But zombies don’t blush, do they? 

“What do you --?”

“Shush.” Patryck cuts him off. Squatting down, cocking his head to the side as he reasons with himself. “I could finish you right now, but that’s against the rules, isn’t it? To do something that would make the story end.” 

“What rules? What are you talking about?”

“Then again,” Patryck continues, a smile crawling over his face. “When have I ever done what God’s told me to do?”

And he places the nail gun at the base of Will’s spine and pulls the trigger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes I stole a joke from Yahtzee, what about it


	5. diy strade btd

Will howls as the nail drives itself into him, and pain explodes down his back. He claws at the floor, trying desperately to push himself away, to get away from the pain, when he suddenly realises he can’t feel his legs. The pain in his shoulders is still there, but he doesn’t feel it when Patryck moves to grab hold of his ankle. He watches, stiff with fear, as he begins to drag him.

He tries to kick away. His foot won’t budge, and he gets a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach as Patryck begins to make his way towards the basement door, hoping and hoping Tord and Paul will get back before he’s murdered and strewn about the house in little pieces. Will grabs at Jaundice as he’s dragged, fingers closing around his soft ear. He drew him closer to his body as Patryck kicked open the basement door, narrowing his eyes at him and trying to curl in on himself. He was beginning to get waves of cramps, far worse than his normal heats, but Patryck paid no notice to him as he whimpered in pain. 

Patryck glanced down at him with a grin, and threw him down the stairs. He cried out in pain as he hit the floor, body already bruised and broken and just becoming more battered. He hopped down the stairs, with more grace than what would be expected from a zombie, and padded over to him. Will tried to shuffle away, sobs wracking his body, but he didn’t manage, instead being pulled over to nearer the workbench.   
“Now, you’ve been awfully naughty, haven’t you?” He chided, looking down at Will with half-lidded eyes.   
“Fuck off.” He choked out, only receiving a foot on his chest for his efforts. 

He pressed down hard with his foot, pushing all of the air out of the omega below him, who squirmed weakly to try and get away. He set the nail gun down on the workbench, looking over him, before deciding he’d come back to him. Will’s eyes fluttered shut for a moment, black licking at the edges of his vision, before the slam of the basement door brought him back to reality. 

Propping himself up onto his elbows, he looked up at the workbench and saw a hacksaw. Will, being Will, put two and two together and made 5.

He shuffled over to the workbench, reaching up in a feeble attempt to grab the saw, and narrowing his eyes. Feeling around for a moment, he eventually grabbed it and pulled it off the table. Shuffling back over to Jaundice, he held the top of his hoodie between his teeth, and positioned the hacksaw above his thigh. He was still disgustingly wet from the fake heat, which was making his hands rather shaky, and he just wanted to get this over and done with. He’d deal with Paul and Tord when he got out of the basement. 

Jaundice gave a soft, sympathetic noise, and he sighed, reaching over to pick him back up and wrap his long body around his neck. Steadying himself once more, he began to cut into himself, wincing at the feeling of cutting through his own skin. He bit down hard on the bit of hoodie he had in his mouth, squeezing his eyes shut as he felt blood beginning to soak into him. He was hit with another heat cramp and doubled over, letting go of the saw in favour of crying out, pressing a hand into his stomach and hoping it would subside. His vision swims, and for a moment he feels like he’s going to throw up.

Thinking he’s in the clear, he moves to take hold of the hacksaw handle again, only to gag as the amount of blood he’s lost finally catches up to him, and he begins to feel faint. Forcing himself to continue, he starts sawing again, only stopping when he reaches the bone in his thigh to turn his head to the side and throw up on the basement floor.

When his vision clears, he looks over the mess of vomit and blood and slick on the floor and begins to cry. Jaundice chirps sadly, mechanical parts wirring as he wiggles his ears, attempting to provide some kind of solace to the omega. 

Will took a few deep breaths, wiping the tears from his cheeks. Breathe. You're alright. Pretend like you’re not in your basement cutting off your leg. It’ll be alright. He steels himself, beginning to cut through bone and cringing at the harsh noise. He eventually got through his whole leg, pushing it as far away from himself as he could and trying to draw the other up, remembering why he was doing this in the first place when he couldn’t.

He could hear Patryck moving around upstairs, and he paused to make sure he wasn’t coming to the basement door, and then moved the hacksaw to his other leg. His hoodie was wet with spit and tears, and by the time he has made the first cut he was sobbing again. Will bit down on his hoodie again, squeezing his eyes shut as he kept going. His body was cramping and he was beginning to feel increasingly faint, but he was getting through it quicker than the last one.

When his leg was finally severed, he threw the hacksaw to the other end of the room, burying his face in his hands and starting to sob again. Jaundice attempted to console him, chirping quietly next to his ear, but the sound eventually began to grow fainter and fainter as black washed over his vision. Will fought it for a moment, before finally just letting go and sinking back into his head, body going limp.


	6. yees my haw

Paul stops dead when Patryck opens the door. 

“Couldn’t get you raw,” Tord says, handing Patryck a sealed salad and several small cups of ranch. “So I just got you some rabbit food instead.”

Patryck shrugs, leaning forward so Tord can plant a quick kiss on his cold cheek. “Their beef isn’t kosher anyway.”

Tord stops only a few feet into the house, slamming his hand over his mouth and nose. “What the hell is --” Silver eyes widen. “No way,” he says, the tips of his smile raising above his fingers. Before either of them can reply, Tord has darted into the kitchen, rummaging under the sink until he straightens up, adjusting his red gas mask over his face. 

“I thought you were over your cyber-goth pha--” Paul sweeps Patryck up into his arms. A heartbeat, then two. Patryck feels Paul start to tremble, and he wraps his arms around Paul’s neck, gently ruffling his hair. “It’s alright, darling.” 

A dark, low noise in Paul’s throat. Paul’s nose at the side of his neck, trying to find his scent gland. There’s only a lingering of Patryck’s scent -- vanilla and the color violet, somehow -- like old libraries and delicate paper. Patryck doesn’t yelp as Paul hefts him up, wrapping his legs around Paul’s waist as he’s carried out of the foyer. 

“Will’s in the basement,” Patryck says to Tord as Paul brings him out and down the hall, to the spare room Paul’s claimed as his nest. Tord flashes a thumbs-up, taking his work gloves out of the drawer by the fridge.

One door opens, another close.

* * *

I’m right here… 

Cold lips kiss his eyelids, heavy with unshed tears. I’m right here. Paul presses him down into the mattress on the floor, covering Patryck’s body with his own. Another low, pathetic noise. 

Patryck’s hand in his hair, along his shoulder blades and back up again. Patryck opens his legs wider, pushing against the mess of clothes and sheets, letting Paul settle more comfortably atop him. 

Paul keeps his nose buried in Patryck’s scent gland, feeling his muscles unravel as his alpha’s pheromones seep into his bloodstream. 

I’m right here….Patryck whispers again, planting a trail of light kisses from Paul’s brow bone to his jaw to the scent gland at the base of his throat, a soft lump that smells of himself and Tord. Faintly. It’s about time to renew the mating claims. 

He can remember how it had felt to bite down that first time, like a battery overloading right as it was drained. 

That’s a narrative trick. That memory didn’t exist before it was written. 

“No one is gonna take you away from me,” Patryck whispers, kissing the gland. 

Paul tries to say something but the weight of it is too much, so instead he pulls Patryck tighter against himself. 

There’s a song that goes  _ we only have what we remember _ . 

What pleasant bullshit. 

* * *

Tord twirls the screwdriver around his fingers as he stomps down the stairs, already hearing Will’s moans escalate. 

“If you’re jacking off, don’t expect me to join you,” Tord calls as he hits pavement. Will’s voice reaches a higher pitch as he pushes himself up into a sitting position, eyes glassy. 

“Alpha…?” His voice is thick with phlegm. 

Tord wolf-whistles. “I’m impressed.” He picks up the handsaw, feeling the heft of it in his hands before wiping up a bit of blood off the side and popping the finger into his mouth. A pleased sound. “Can practically taste the desperation.”

“Alpha,  _ please _ \--”

“That’s not gonna work,” Tord quips back, tapping the side of his gas mask. “Filters out all hazardous chemicals and pheromones. Very useful during the occasional omega riot.” 

“Omega...riot?” Will asks. “I thought...I mean, I’ve never heard of any omega riots.”

“You really think this is the only fic where omegas are oppressed?” Tord laughs. “Please. You don’t know how good you have it.” Will hears Tord’s steps echo loudly in his head as the alpha steals across the room to him, stopping only to tap his foot against Will’s amputated leg. “See, in some universes” -- here Tord is suddenly looming over him, a hand by Will’s head, face so close that the gas mask almost chafes Will’s nose. “--omegas are killed once they’ve outgrown their usefulness.” 

Jaundice chirps in alarm. Will feels a cramp like a rat trying to eat through his organs, and all he can do is blubber a broken sob. 

Tord shushes him, runs the back of his hand down Will’s wet face. “Don’t cry, baby boy. It’ll be okay.” But then the eyes of his eyes crinkle up like they always do when he smiles. Tord looks Will up and down, says, “Comparatively anyway.” Flicks on the handsaw, speaking louder to be heard over its and Will’s shrill screams. “Remember the Stroggification scene from  _ Quake 4? _ ”

* * *

Patryck kisses away Paul’s tears and thinks about that white river he’ll return to, that bottomless sleep. On his knees, memories slipping through his fingers -- war and death and love -- Tord and Yuu and Yanov but Paul, almost always Paul. Sharing boxed lunches, having sex, sharing a cigarette as a dead man swings in the wind. 

How pretentious. Paul’s just my co-pilot. 

_ “I love you.” _ Patryck feels Paul’s tears fall onto his own face and wonders how many kids they’ve had and abandoned. 

The most common one he saw was Tord. That’s not weird at all; that bile he tastes is just from the putrification. 

_ It’s not real.  _

“I love you so much, Patryck.” Paul’s voice breaks at his name, and Patryck kisses him, feeling that scent glad, those old bite scars under his hand. 

“I love you too, Paul.” A kiss on his dimple, Patryck’s favorite spot. Another, another, crawling down his throat again -- his bobbing throat, his heavy pulsing, his warm skin. 

“Even though you smell.” Finally, a chuckle, making Patryck pause with his smile pressed against Paul’s claiming scars. In the basement, Will is probably screaming, but from here they can only smell him. 

Patryck titters; “Sorry about that, love.” 

And then Patryck bites down.


	7. dickfingers

He’s still screaming, but quite a bit quieter now.

Will watched through teary eyes as Tord worked, barely able to keep conscious.He kept the collar of his sweater held between his teeth to keep himself quiet, to take away from the satisfaction Tord was most certainly getting out of this, furrowing his eyebrows as what he was doing started to hurt. Trying to yank his leg out of grip only made it hurt more, but he still tried, hands scrabbling on the cold, unforgiving basement floor. 

Jaundice chirped in concern as Will gave a loud yelp, shoulders hunching up as Tord drew back, flicking off and setting the handsaw down with an annoyed look.  
"I'm starting to think you're not listening to me." He tilted Will's head up, who just narrowed his eyes and tried to kick him away, probably forgetting half his leg was discarded on the floor.  
"You were talking?" He asked, voice strained from screaming, looking a little panicked as Tord stood up, stomping over to the stairs. He didn't answer, instead leaving the room for a moment, coming back in with another of Will's furbies in his hands. 

This reminded him of what he'd said earlier, of the quake four stroggification thing, and he looked down, finally realising what Tord had been doing. Attached to the bloody stump of his left leg was indeed, just a furby.  
"Oh, gosh." He mumbled, trying to draw his legs up into his chest, but wincing as it jostled the furby.  
"Do you see what I meant now?" Tord asks, grin hidden by the gas mask, and Will nodded, shoulders heaving as he began to sob, furrowing his eyebrows. He crouched back down, gripping hold of Will's right leg, digging his nails in a little harder than necessary just to hear his breath hitch.  
“God, what the fuck.” He whined, pressing his hands over his eyes for a moment, wiping at his tears. 

He opened his mouth to speak again, only to be cut off by Tord turning the handsaw back on and beginning to work, jerking in his grip as he tried to get away, wailing. He clawed at the basement floor, jagged nails digging into the rough concrete as he began to clean up the mess Will has made of his own leg. He kicked out, but all that did was make him grip tighter, narrowing his eyes. His faux heat was making his mind go all fuzzy, and as the pain got worse he began to lose his grip on consciousness, his screams growing quieter as he finally went into shock, eyes glazed over just a little.

Now he’d stopped screaming and trying to kick him away, Tord could work much quicker. Jaundice protested quietly from where he was perched, but he paid him no mind. It wasn’t like there was anything the furby could do, anyway. 

He set the handsaw down, humming some tune to himself as he worked, picking up the drill to begin attaching the second furby. If Will was more lucid, he would have made a joke here, but he got the feeling it would just go straight over their head right now. His knees were getting wet from their blood, which had pooled beneath them. That much blood was never good, but he wasn’t really paying it any mind, so he just kept going. 

Will mumbled a soft word of complaint, shifting slightly to try and shake off his hands, but he kept a firm grip on his leg as he worked. Wouldn’t want to make any more of a mess. 

Eventually, once he’d finally attached the second furby to the poor omega’s leg, he turned off the drill and stood up, regarding them with narrowed eyes. They’d crawl their way out of the basement soon enough, he thought, setting the drill and the hacksaw out of their reach on the workbench. Once he was out of the basement, he finally took the gas mask off, putting it back in his drawer and stretching. Sitting in such an awkward position for that long wasn’t too comfortable.

When he woke up, the first thing Will noticed was that he was all sticky with his own blood. Crinkling his nose, he propped himself up on his elbows, surveying the basement groggily as he recollected his memories. What on earth had happened here? 

Tord's tools were out. Odd. He hadn't been working on anything for a while, and he couldn't see anything else on the workbench. His head felt fuzzy - the kind of just coming down from a heat fuzzy he'd come to hate, and oddest of all, he couldn't feel his legs.

He rubbed his eyes with his fists, furrowing his eyebrows and moving to stand, his legs wobbling underneath him. He felt faint. Really faint. Using the wall behind him to support him, he straightened up, looking down. 

His legs had been replaced with furbies. 

That wasn't really the weirdest thing that'd happened to him that day, he thought, narrowing his eyes. He knew the thing with Patryck shooting him with the nail gun must have been some kind of hallucination? Maybe? Hopefully, at least. People didn't just...come back alive, or at least, they shouldn't. Although, as he felt around on his shoulder, he did feel the cold metal of a nail against his fingers. Digging his nails into his skin, he yanked it out, throwing it to the ground with a hiss of pain. It did indeed seem like it had happened. 

Dried blood was all over him, and as he looked around, he realised that the blood on the ground was from him. His kegs  
"Tord?" He called, voice thick with phlegm. He didn't get a response, so he tried again, a little louder. Taking a deep breath, he began to try and inch his way toward the door, each step sending a lance of pain through the stump of his leg. He wondered, for a moment, whether this was some kind of fever dream. I mean, he had furbies for legs, and has just seen a ghost? a zombie? Who knew.

He sighed, and slumped against the door. God, what the fuck.


End file.
